


and the day, it is breaking

by cartoonheart



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:31:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartoonheart/pseuds/cartoonheart





	and the day, it is breaking

It's ridiculous, he thinks, to be jealous of your past self. Although he supposes that probably isn't the norm for most species. He can't think of all that many off the top of his head that are prone to semi-regular bouts of regeneration.

Nevertheless, to be envious of himself? It's illogical. Especially of the one with the chin and the silly hair. He certainly won't miss the uncontrollable way his hands used to flap about, with minds of their own.

But yet, he is still jealous. Jealous of a bow-tie wearing fop who he knows was him and yet simultaneously is definitely not him now, not any more, not ever again. Even with a new regeneration cycle the odds of that face coming up again in the roulette of potential genetic material is highly unlikely.

Clara is quiet. She's still there, with him, so he considers that a major plus in the circumstances. But then again she of all his companions is probably better prepared than most, having seen his other faces before. Some of his previous travellers had not taken to the process that well at all, and he considers that perhaps he might find it weird himself if it hadn't been hard-wired into him, like blinking or yawning. Humans didn't really go around changing their faces at a whim, so he could see how it might be jarring for their tiny little brains.

She's pressed up against the railing, biting her thumb nail. They've barely had time for an introduction after crashing into the middle of Victorian London and right into the centre of an escapade with Vastra, Jenny and Strax, and that damned idiotic horse (never again, not in this body at least). But now that the dust had settled, now that he had found himself proper clothes that didn't make him look (even more) like a tweedy old professor or a runaway from a Victorian insane asylum, they could talk.

Except he can tell that Clara probably wasn't in the mood for talking. This body was a bit more perceptive than the last one, he'll give it that, even though the joints were a little stiffer, and the elbows a bit less pointy (much to his disappointment). 

_Please don't change_ , she had said. And everything about her now confirmed that she was still thinking it. But it was too late, of course. Onwards and upwards and all that.

"Where to next then?" he says, his tongue curling in unfamiliar ways around the twists of his new voice. He can't stop the way the accent lilts - it's an interesting one for sure. He practises the word 'next' again with the sound popping loudly on the last syllable. Clara's eyes widen in alarm. Perhaps she thinks he's lost his mind - it wouldn't be the first time that a regeneration has caused a bit of a hiccup.

"Next?" she repeats, eyebrows furrowing as if the entire concept is far too much for her. Human brains, he accepts, are not very good with considering infinite possibilities. Perhaps he should provide some options.

"Well, I don't want to stay in Victorian London, do you? A little gloomy for my tastes. How about the adventure planet of Claspitorno? Do you like jazz? We could go and meet Scott Fitzgerald - fascinating man! Although a bit of a drinker, so maybe not. How about the founding of New New New New York? They could probably use a bit of our help; the third one was a bit of a shambles, but it was definitely _not_ my fault that time."

He's flicking at levers and switches - anything to distract himself from the way she stares at him. A cross between confusion and bewilderment. The new face really isn't _that_ bad, he thinks. He's definitely had worse. 

She plucks at the cuffs of her cardigan, pulling them down to further cover her small hands. He would grasp them if he could, but he's not sure if she'd be receptive. He's not even sure that this body is as tactile as the last. He's not sure about a lot of things yet. 

"I don't even know if I like fish fingers and custard any more," he says out loud. Although considering the way his mouth twists up into a contemptuous sneer, he doesn't think it likely. He scarcely has any more time to dwell on the other fundamental changes that may have occurred to his taste buds because just at that moment Clara chokes out a strangled sob and flees from the console room.

Well, _that_ was unexpected. Does he follow her? Does he not? He doesn't like the idea of her being out of his eye line, not even inside the TARDIS. Not because he doesn't trust the old girl, of course. He knows that she and Clara had managed to move past their prickly beginnings. No, it is more that Clara's face is comforting to him, even if the expressions she makes causes his hearts to wilt in defeat.

The previous him would have known what to do now, he ponders enviously. Who knew that ol' Chinny was so smart after all?

\--

He leaves her alone for as long as he can muster, which is exactly nine minutes and twenty seven seconds. It takes him another three minutes and thirteen seconds to walk the corridors and find her, so technically he thinks he has done pretty well considering.

She's not in her room, or the library, or even the kitchen. On the table there is an discarded half-cup of tea, still warm, so he knows she isn't far away. There is a faint smear of pink lip gloss on the rim. He takes a sip and is heartened to know that he still likes tea. That preference has been remarkably consistent over the centuries.

Clara is not in any of the rooms he expected. Rather, she is sitting propped up against a wall just down the corridor from the kitchen. Her knees are pulled up to her chest, chin resting on them. She looks startled to see him. Her eyes are red, but her cheeks aren't wet. There is a little bit of mud still on her shoes, he notices.

"Are you alright?" he asks gingerly, unsure as to whether he should sit down next to her. The awkward looming is probably a little uncomfortable, he thinks, so he lowers his frame (two centimetres taller than before) onto the ground beside her.

Clara huffs, not angrily but what he would take a haphazard guess at as frustration. Her fringe moves with the motion and doesn't settle back in the same place. He wants to fix it, but resists. These hands feel large and unwieldy compared to the last set.

"I know it's not your fault," she says finally, her palms moving to press the tops of her knees, elbows (not very pointy either) by her sides. He isn't close enough for their arms to touch, but it is only a matter of mere particles, he senses.

"I know that you had to change, that you didn't have a choice. And logically, I understand how it works... you know, considering it isn't exactly normal where I come from. But it is one thing to know it, yet it is another thing to _see_ it, to accept it, to live with it..."

She trails off ominously, and he doesn't like where this is heading. He doesn't like it at _all_. He's already cursing his previous incarnation for growing too close to her, for being too blatant in his fondness for her. But how could it be helped really? This body is brand new, and yet Clara is still etched as deeply onto his hearts as she ever was, perhaps even more so. It's for this reason that this face tried to be cold with her in the start, to be distant. But maybe he went too far the other way. In the end, he never can bear the thought of them all fading from him, moving out of his reach. And her least of all.

His hands lock together, the fingertips pressing tightly into his opposing knuckles. He feels the ends of his nails, anticipates the way they will form sharp crescent shapes into his skin. "Do you want me to take you home?" he asks eventually. His voice doesn't betray him, and he is grateful for that at least. He will do as she bids, whatever that may be. Bowing his head, he waits for the answer, dreading it, his hearts beating an uneven rhythm. The TARDIS thrums sympathetically around him.

There is no response. He begins to wonder whether he has even spoken out loud. Perhaps he's imagined it? Maybe he really mad in this body? He really doesn't need to be dealing with delusions on top of everything else he has to contend with.

"Well, do you?" he prompts. It comes out a bit more forceful than he would have liked, but he's still getting used to the voice, the gruff tone. But at least he knows that he's asked now, rather than imagined asking, or only forming words in his own mind that weren't reaching his mouth. There is a metallic taste on his tongue. Sharp and bitter and perhaps that is what regret tastes like, he thinks. That's rather poetic, all in all. Maybe he's poetic now?

"Do you want me to go?" Clara fires back at him, removing her hands from her knees, and stretching her legs out on the floor in front of her. He thinks she is on the verge of springing up to leave and he's half on the cusp of doing the same. But she doesn't move, just stares at him again instead. Her eyes are the same, big and brown and full of _things_. Things he can't decipher, even a genius like him. Humans are obsessed with feelings, he knows this and he still hasn't quite got the hang of all of them. He's so busy trying to figure out what her eyes say that he has forgotten to respond.

He clears his throat. "Of _course_ I don't want you to go," he replies. He laces it with scorn, with derision, as if the suggestion of her leaving appals him. He doesn't have to pretend on that one. The thought of her leaving makes him feel sick to his brand new stomach.

"You don't?"

"No!"

"I thought that... because you'd changed, perhaps you wouldn't want me around any more?"

"That's nonsensical," he says, barely holding back a roll of his eyes. The invisible hand around his throat unfurls a bit.

"Is it?"

"Yes, I just said that it was."

"You're very direct, you know."

"New man, new Doctor," he counters.

"Yes, I know," she responds sadly. A sigh. 

"He wasn't that great, you know."

"Who?"

"Me. Old me."

"Oh?"

He flounders a bit. It feels odd to be talking about himself in this way. As if he was an entirely separate being to the him that he was now. Of course, on the surface he was, new packaging and all that. But the memories are the same. He still remembers everything, still remembers her, how she makes him feel, how she challenges him.

"Constantly contradicting himself all the time? It really did undermine any chance of authority. And that face didn't help," he shakes his head distastefully. If he's going to talk about himself, then he might as well grammatically commit to the use of the third person.

There is a fraction of a smile on her face. Just a hint at the corner of her lovely mouth, before she seems to catch it and tug it away. 

"I'll miss that face," Clara murmurs sadly, suddenly melancholy again.

"Do you not like this face?" He presses his fingertips to it. It was rather pliable, even though the skin was a little more weathered than before. He supposes he has practically doubled in age since his last regeneration. It really _was_ a lottery.

Clara shifts, peers at him intently. She's so close that he can see a clump of mascara on one of her eyelashes, can feel the hush of her breath on his skin. "There is nothing wrong with your face," she answers finally. "It's just... different. New."

"Obviously," he says, trying to be kindly but in the end he just sounds frustrated. A little hurt. "Bad new?"

"Are you asking me if I think you're good looking?" she teases, and there it is, that hint of Clara. His impossible girl. 

"That was _not_ what I was asking," he asserts, tugging at his shirt collar. It might be a little too tight, too stiff, or maybe it was just warm in this part of the TARDIS. Maybe his neck is just a weird shape. He'll have to check later.

Clara raises an eyebrow, a gesture full of yesterdays and hopefully futures. It says everything she doesn't want to say.

"I definitely _wasn't_ asking that," he confirms again, aiming for dignity this time. He thinks he has the distinguished air for it with this face,: yes, a bit of dignity. It's about time after hundreds of years running about being a boy dressed in tweed.

"If you say so," she sing-songs, full of smug knowing and a hint of flirtation. He might be blushing. He can't be sure with this face yet. But she's practically smiling and that's the most important thing.

But back to the matter at hand. "So will you stay?" he asks. It is of paramount importance that she does, he knows. He needs her, even if he can't say it. Won't say it. They are the same thing, and yet not. He feels like he sounds eager, and that is already too much.

Clara tilts her head back, stares at the ceiling. Her hands look so delicate in her lap as she twists the ring on her finger, once, twice, counter-clockwise.

"Yes," she says finally and he releases the breath he didn't realise he was holding with a loud exhale. "But I need you to take me home, for now."

The words come as a blow, hard and heavy, right to the gut. There is a rising panic in his chest at the thought of her being gone from him, being not _here_.

"Yes, alright," he promises quietly. "I can do that." He sets himself in motion, the urge to move overwhelming him. He'll do what she says, he always did, always had, always will, except when it came to her safety. A character flaw or a strength: it was always one or the other, depending on the situation, he figures. He's on his feet, limbs stretching, creaking, and there she is, wounding him without meaning to, without guile. 

He's about four steps down the corridor, before he turns back to her, unable to stop himself. "I _am_ the same man, deep down. I'm still the Doctor. Still _your_ Doctor, Clara." So much for dignity, he thinks. But perhaps he needs her to know this even if he is no good at showing it.

She glances over to him, eyes shifting from the ceiling to his awaiting gaze. He is struck by her every time, by this girl who splintered herself to save him, who lived a thousand different lives and died a thousand deaths to protect him. The other him, of course, but him nevertheless.

"I know that," she says, tone soft and kind, getting up after him. She is so small in comparison. He feels even more like a giant that he did before. He can't help but instinctively lean down towards her. "I know you're the same. I... I... it just takes some getting used to. The new face, the new you. I'm so used to the old one."

"I know," he acknowledges, nods. There is a grip on her heart that the previous him still has, and perhaps that is okay. It can't be helped after all, can it? He's only fighting against himself, against a memory of the man he was, and he can't compete with a memory.

"I'll miss the chin in particular," she teases again and reaches up to tweak his own far less prominent one. 

"I find that hard to believe," he retorts sternly.

Her eyes smile. She smiles. All is right with the world, apart from the fact that she wants to go home. But only for now, he tells himself. Only for now, and that's fine. Besides, he has a time machine - he can certainly ensure that the time goes as quickly as possible. A quick hop in and out of the vortex and they'll be right as rain, together again.

"Better get going then," he says, and he finds himself holding out his hand to her like always. Maybe he should have thought better of it, perhaps it was too soon. But he is still the Doctor, and he still needs this from her, always has, always will.

Clara must recognise this, because she doesn't hesitate when she takes his hand, grasping a little too tightly, like usual. She is warm and calming and they walk in silence back to the console room. 

"When shall I come back and get you?" He is already thinking ahead, planning their next adventure. Definitely jazz, he decides. He thinks he likes jazz now, but he wants to double-check. 

"Oh no, you're not just going to leave me there with no explanation!" Clara practically has to take two steps to his one and he involuntarily finds himself slowing down so they can match pace. They round the corner and there is the centre console, beautiful as ever.

"I don't understand?" he says as they climb the stairs. He reluctantly lets go of her hand once they reach the top, but she stays close by his side, watching him as he starts flicking the levers and adjusting the angle of the screen.

"Well, I left right in the middle of Christmas dinner. Told them to stay put and just ran out in the middle of it, with no reason - just ran after you. Old you who was pretending to be my boyfriend?"

He had forgotten. But it had been nine hundred odd years ago, give or take. His synapses were only now just starting to settle down. "A lot _has_ happened since then," he reminds her, punching in the co-ordinates. He hasn't forgotten those. The ship shudders in response.

"Well, they're going to have to meet you sooner rather than later, don't you think?" She trails after him, following his progress, awaiting his reaction.

"I don't have to meet them, if its easier for you," he says. The idea of it all makes him squirm, but he'll do it if he has to. If she needs him to.

It is like she can read his mind, sense his discomfort. 

"It's alright, Doctor. I know you're not good at the domestics. I'll just run inside, wrap things up, and grab some stuff, yeah?"

"I can pop back in a few days, if that's easier," he suggests, finding the buttons on the console in front of him very interesting. He doesn't want to meet her eyes, knows that somehow he'll betray himself. 

"No!" she half shouts, hurriedly scrambling towards him until her small hands grasp his own, forcing him to look at her. There is panic in her eyes, like she's been rattled to her core. The pulse at his wrists race; he wonders if she can feel it. 

"No, _please_. Just stay outside and wait for me. Don't go anywhere, not to the vortex, not anywhere, okay? Do you promise me?"

And then he finally understands. 

"I promise I won't leave you," he says, and this time he means it. There is still doubt in her eyes and of course the memories are still fresh enough for Clara for her to be mistrustful of his words. The Doctor lies. He lies to save people, and he lies to save himself. But mostly he lies to protect the ones he loves, to keep them from harm's way. No doubt Clara knows this deep down, she's a smart girl, the smartest. But yes, this time he understands.

"Can I trust you this time?" Her small hands grip fast, like a lifeline to him. Like it or not, he is bound to her, hard and strong. First face that this face saw. He can't change that. Wouldn't want to.

He twists his wrists out of her grasp, gently, patiently. Her hands are shaking but he pretends not to notice. He takes them in his own, laces them through. His fingers are long and tapered and hers almost disappear between them. Her palms are warm. She stares at him, like she wants to memorise his face, _this_ face. It is new and it won't replace the old one in her heart, he knows. But it can be there alongside it, and that is good enough for now. 

"Yes, Clara," he agrees. "You can trust me." He says it with all the sincerity that he can dig up. And he means it too. That isn't to say that he won't lie to protect her again, in the future. Because she's extraordinary and he won't be the cause of any harm to her. But no, he won't leave her, not if he can help it. 

She seems satisfied with his words. Words are only words after all, and they both know better than most that actions are what really matters. With a nod of her head, she steps away. His hands release hers. 

"Are we here then?" she asks, glancing towards the door. He nods.

"I'll be back soon," Clara says, moving towards the door. "Okay?"

"I'll be here," he replies, meaning every word. He's still got that book on quantum mechanics to finish, if he can find it. It will help pass the time.

She smiles and it reaches her eyes again and it is everything this face needed from her. There is a beat, a pause and then suddenly two steps, a blur of colour, and she is in his arms, curling around him. 

It is overwhelming at first. This body's still new, despite how it looks, and it works differently and reacts differently to the old one. But her hair smells the same, and she still fits exactly under his chin as he holds her. Everything is alright, he tells himself. Everything is good. He breathes her in, hands finally coming to rest on her back, the wool of her cardigan soft under his fingertips. He feels her sigh against him. He feels relaxed.

They stay like that for long moments, the TARDIS humming approvingly, lights dimming. 

Clara eventually pulls away, gazes up at him. At his new face.

"I know," she replies confidently. "I trust you."

He clings to it as the door slams behind her.


End file.
